As Others See Me
by Sigridhr
Summary: The first rule of adventuring, Darcy learnt, was don't touch the thing. Unfortunately, this was a lesson Darcy learnt the hard way.


**Notes:**

Written for the Darcy Lewis Smut Week challenge on Tumblr. The prompt was bodyswap.

* * *

The first rule of adventuring, Darcy learnt, was don't touch the thing. It didn't matter if the thing was shiny, or spikey, or on sale in a market from a slightly shady-looking vendor who promised it would solve all her problems and bring her true happiness – the rule was, _do not touch the thing_.

Unfortunately, this was a lesson Darcy learnt the hard way.

…

It would be a considerable understatement to say that Sif was unamused. There were a number of things she had suffered over the course of her long life – a number of indignities at the hands of Thor's hair-brained schemes, and Fandral's even hairier-brained schemes. But this was by far the worst.

She was _mortal_, and short. And her own body was staring back at her with an expression of shock on her face that Sif wanted to smack clean off.

"Oh my _god_," said the mortal wearing her body. "I am so sorry."

The suspicious-looking vendor had already made a break for it, but Sif was still holding the cursed crystal in what had once been Darcy's hands and she wanted nothing more than to smash it. Instead she pressed into her body's palm, hoping it would simply switch them back.

It didn't.

"I'm so, so sorry," said Darcy again.

The worst part was, Sif had to look up to look her in the eye.

…

Darcy had been avoiding peeing as long as she could manage. She'd had to go for well over two hours now, holding it in like she was holding on to the shattered shreds of Sif's dignity, unwilling to _pee_ in another person's body.

But the flip side was, she was pretty sure if she didn't she was going to lose it.

It felt invasive – utterly wrong and unbearably intimate in the worst way with someone who Darcy found, frankly, intimidating. She tried not to think about it.

This was turning out to be the worst adventure ever.

…

Nobody seemed to have a clue how to fix it, which seemed a little appalling to Darcy because, _surely_, if one lived in a universe where random handouts from strangers could cause body-swapping, someone had to have come up with an antidote?

But the Elves were surprisingly mellow on the topic and gave an odd sort of shrug and told her it would work out fine in the end. They also reminded her that she was liable for any damage incurred in the market and that they weren't responsible for sorting out problems any sensible person would have avoided.

It was odd watching the conversation go down, because Sif spent the entire time staring them down in her body, and she was pretty sure she now knew what she'd look like if she ever took up a life of crime.

Badass, is what she would look like.

She was almost sorry when Sif didn't kick their asses.

…

The weird thing was, she sort of gravitated to Sif. Sif was wearing her skin, after all, and there was something comforting about being around herself. She could _smell_ herself, and that was frankly the most disturbing thing she'd learnt from the whole experience. But she could smell her shampoo and the laundry detergent she used, and it was comforting in a way Sif's body just_wasn't_.

She hated the way she walked always a little off-kilter, not used to being so tall. Sif's armour felt like a corset, pinning her in and lacing her up in clothes she hadn't earned and didn't suit. She felt like she was making a mockery of everything Sif was with every step, every grimace and every bit of slang she let slip into her diction. She wanted to walk taller and carry her sword like she owned it, but she knew she was walking in borrowed shoes and it _bothered_ her.

She was close enough to touch her own body – but close enough to touch was too far for her to cope.

…

Sif was frail. She felt exposed and vulnerable, the weakness in her limbs apparent with every move she made. She touched things with un-calloused hands, walked with soft, un-toned thighs, and lived in a body that had no memory of holding a sword.

She felt naked. But she refused to let it get to her, demanding the place she'd earned among the Warriors 3, ignoring the way they stared at her – the way she had become a liability, no longer their asset. She watched the way they formed ranks around her, and she wanted to shove them all aside, to spar them to the ground and laugh as she met them, steel upon steel, but she felt the weight of her weapon when she lifted it as she never had before, and felt the decay festering in her body – a life burning so hot and so brief – and she had never felt so alone.

…

They started to drift closer, as if by sheer proximity they could work their way back into their own bodies.

Darcy got used to the feeling of Sif's shoulder pressing against hers, and for moments she could forget where Sif's body ended and hers began, and it was finally _comfortable_ again.

She ignored the weird looks she got from Jane when she and Sif spent all their time side by side, practically eating off each others plates, because no one else understood what it felt like to be such a stranger in your own skin – to feel like a thief of the body you wore.

Inside Sif's body, Darcy was alone – but Sif was alone with her, so it was alright.

…

In a way, it was probably a natural progression that they wound up kissing. The past few days had been little more than an escalating competition to see who could keep the most skin-to-skin contact. Sif's fingers on the back of her neck as she leant over to grab more bread, Darcy's fingers tangling with hers as they walked, Sif's hair against her cheek as she threw her head back laughing, their arms around each other's waists, fingers tucked quietly beneath the hem of Sif's shirt to press gently against the skin of her hips.

It felt _almost_ narcissistic to be kissing herself, but she couldn't help feeling acutely aware that it was _Sif_ beneath her lips, Sif's hands – un-calloused and human still, but guided by a mind that held a sword with all the poise of a dancer – and her hands danced across Darcy's skin now. It was Sif who undid the armour, familiarity substituting for muscle memory, and Darcy pulled her own clothes off Sif's body.

It was a unique perspective to see herself through someone else's eyes. To be able to touch her own body without feeling it – to be so oddly disconnected. None of the issues that riddled her skin like fault lines when she saw her own face in the mirror seemed evident now. She saw her skin simply as it was, standing on the outside and looking in, and it made her hands shake as she covered her breasts with them.

Sif was quiet, tracing the line of her shoulder with Darcy's fingers, and examining her own hair between finger and thumb.

When she kissed her, Sif slipped her tongue into her mouth and did the thing that Darcy had loved since she first learnt how to kiss. She flicked her thumb over Sif's nipple, and Sif gasped against her mouth, and Darcy was wholly undone.

It was messy and heavy and so utterly perfect – Sif's fingers traced down Darcy's hips, stripping her off her breeches and teasing along her upper thigh in a way that seemed to set her skin alight with sensation. Darcy rubbed her fingers in slow circles over Sif's clit ¬– _her_ clit, so oddly familiar and yet almost unrecognizable without the feedback of sensation. But Sif's hips bucked up against her hands, and Darcy laughed against her skin, pressing her lips to the space between Sif's breast and shoulder, because the more things had changed, the more they'd stayed the same.

Sif's body was trembling and Darcy bent down, taking one of her nipples into her mouth and sucking, swirling her tongue around the tip, and suddenly Sif's legs were tight around her waist and she was arching back in a way Darcy never did – and she _saw Sif_in the light behind her body's eyes, in the way her hands clenched and unclenched in the sheets and the high, breathless noises she made, and all Darcy wanted was to be closer.

When Sif came, trembling and clutching at the bed like a lifeline, Darcy felt her heart nearly stop. She saw herself in smooth curves and messy pleasure, and wondered why she'd ever cared what she looked like in bed at all.

But it was there only for a flicker before Sif sat up with a grin that was all competitiveness and swordplay, flipping Darcy over and straddling her waist, and simply _taking_ her. Sif's tongue was everywhere, her hands on her breasts, her mouth on her clit and Darcy was lost, muscles stronger than any she had ever been used to drawing taut in anticipation.

Sif sucked hard at her clit, her nails digging into Darcy's hips, and Darcy came, hair that wasn't hers spread out like a halo above her head, and her fingers interlinked tightly with her own.

It still wasn't close enough, but it was the most content she'd been in a long time.

…

It was Jane who figured it out eventually, and a part of Darcy was almost sorry to see it end. But stepping back into her own skin, beneath her own clothes felt a lot like coming home, and looking up into Sif's relieved face was enough to settle any doubts.

In unison they both stepped back, re-establishing the space between them as they settled back into their own skin.

"Next time," Fandral said, glibly, "perhaps turn down the offer of a 'harmless' trinket?"

Darcy blushed – something Sif's body hadn't been wont to do – and nodded.

She felt the space between her and Sif as acutely as a phantom limb – a kind of gulf that held the echo of the sensation of closeness. But Sif simply tested her weapon in her hand, straightened up and gave her a single nod, before marching off.

Darcy felt the gap widen. But it was good enough to be back, so she wasn't about to complain. There was a clear, unspoken rule between them that the things they'd done in Bodyswapgate 2013 were never, ever to be talked about, acknowledged, or shared. And that was fine, really. She wasn't keen on exploring the psychological implications of fucking someone else in her body out of a kind of aching corporeal loneliness. That was a stone probably best left unturned.

So she trudged along and was extra careful not to touch anything, and life went on as usual (or, rather, as close to usual as her life ever got nowadays).

It wasn't until dinner that evening, when Sif choose to sit next to her and carefully pressed their shoulders together, letting her hand rest on top of Darcy's as she leant over to grab a piece of bread, that Darcy realised the gap wasn't perhaps as wide as she had thought.

She linked their fingers under the table in quiet, unspoken acknowledgement of the fact that even though they were home, they still weren't alone.


End file.
